The Impossible Fortress(74)
Tack shook his head. “I can’t go behind his back.”
“Then you might as well tear it up,” I said. “Because that’s all Zelinsky’s going to do. He’ll never let her see it.”
Tack paused to take a long sip of coffee. “My goodness, Beth, this is really delicious coffee.”
“Thank you,” Mom said. “It’s Maxwell House.”
“Give me the letter,” I told Tack.
“Let me help you, Will,” he said. “I’ve known Sal for eight years. He’s a reasonable guy. Maybe I can fix this.”
I didn’t see Tack again for three days. The next time he came to our house, I was out in the yard with my mother, helping her anchor a birdbath in a bed of loose gravel. Her plan to “grow a few perennials” had gradually evolved into a full-blown botanical extravaganza, complete with marigolds and sunflowers, carrots and lettuce, a little trail of stepping-stones. Somehow we’d found ourselves with the nicest lawn on Baltic Avenue.
Tack drove up to our house with a trunkful of compost and fertilizer; he carried it across the yard under my mother’s supervision. I knew right away that something was wrong. Most days Tack was quick to say hello and ask how I was doing, but that afternoon he wouldn’t look at me. He lifted every bag of mulch with tremendous care, like the job required his complete and total concentration. I waited maybe ninety seconds before asking if he’d delivered the letter.
“I gave it to Sal,” he said.
“And?”
“And he gave it to Mary.”
“Were you there? Did you see her read it?”
“Yes.”
“And? What did she say?”
He shook his head. “She didn’t say anything.”
Tack reached in his pocket for the letter and returned it to me. I checked the paper front and back, hoping that maybe Mary added some kind of message, but no. Tack sensed my disappointment. He clapped a hand on my shoulder.
“The girl’s had a tough year, Will. A real tough year. Sometimes the best thing for people is a fresh start, you know?”
3400 REM *** PLAY AGAIN?? ***
3410 PRINT "{CLR}{12 CSR DOWN}"
3420 PRINT "{9 SPACES}THY GAME IS OVER."
3430 PRINT "{2 CSR DOWN}"
3440 PRINT "{3 SPACES}WOULD YOU LIKE TO"
3450 PRINT "{5 SPACES}PLAY AGAIN (Y/N)?"
3460 GET PA$
3470 IF PA$<>"Y" OR "N" THEN 3460
3480 IF PA$="Y" THEN GOTO 10
3490 END
THE DAY OF THE awards ceremony, I could barely function at work. I kept dropping brush caps, and six of my mascara tubes failed a QC spot check because the tops weren’t tight enough. Normally I fell asleep on the bus rides home, but all day I was wired and jumpy. I’d spent weeks waiting for the ceremony, daydreaming about computers I might win and conversations I might have with Fletcher Mulligan. Now that the big moment had finally arrived, everything felt slightly unreal, like I was still in a factory daydream.
I got home from work, and Mom announced that Tack was joining us for the ceremony.
“No,” I told her. “No way.”
“He’s excited for you,” she said. “He really wants to be there.”
I reminded her that Alf and Clark were already coming to the ceremony, that our tiny Honda couldn’t hold more than four people. She assured me there was plenty of space in Tack’s car.
“His police car?” I asked. “We’re taking a cop car?”
“You’ve seen how big it is,” Mom said. “He’s got plenty of room for all of us.”
Alf and Clark were delighted by the idea, and Mom invited them to join us for a pre-contest cookout. We stood around the backyard, drinking orange soda and eating hamburgers off paper plates while Tack shared crazy stories of Wetbridge’s most notorious criminals. Like the woman who stole a Butterball turkey using a baby carriage, and the old man who kept exposing himself to the girls at Crenshaw’s Pharmacy.
My friends howled with laughter at every story and the cookout dragged on forever, despite my repeated requests that we get going. The ceremony started at seven o’clock and I wanted to leave the house by five thirty. But at six o’clock we were still in the backyard—now Alf was telling McDonald’s stories—and I was fuming. I must have scowled one too many times because Tack set down his hamburger and pulled me aside. “Tell me something,” he said. “What time do you want to be at this thing?”
“Seven o’clock,” I said. “It starts at seven.”
“Then we’ll be there at seven,” he said. “I’m giving you my word, all right? Now relax and be a good host. These are your friends.”
I’d spend a lot of the next twenty-two years making fun of Tack. I’d ridicule his extreme patriotism, his collection of John Wayne porcelain plates, and his insistence on bringing his gun everywhere, even to the zoo, even to the beach. But there’s one thing I understood early on: this guy always kept his promises. If Tack said seven o’clock, he’d have you on the campus of Rutgers University with ten minutes to spare, descending the steps of the athletic center to a large basement gymnasium where a dot matrix Print Shop banner hung over the doorway: WELCOME HIGH SCHOOL PROGRAMMERS!